


I Don't Dream but I Know that Seeing You Like This Isn't Real

by Boku_no_Botanist



Series: Bill Cipher Fell in Love [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood, I think. We know. Where this about to go., M/M, Tentacle Dick, Wet Dream, no beta we die like men, starts out pretty introspective but ends horny, what a shocker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boku_no_Botanist/pseuds/Boku_no_Botanist
Summary: "Shooting Star once told him that wishes were what dreams were made of. Maybe for mortals. Not for him.He only has ugly memories.So, when he zones out one particular evening while Pinetree’s at some young fleshsack “frat party” to celebrate the end of “midterms” or whatever it was that the kid had been so stressed over, he likes to think that he has every right to be completely and wholeheartedly surprised when a particular series of events unfolds in front of his dream-self."Bill gets horny.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines
Series: Bill Cipher Fell in Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749775
Comments: 23
Kudos: 91





	I Don't Dream but I Know that Seeing You Like This Isn't Real

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2... a blast to the past!!!
> 
> I haven't written anything steamy like this in seven years, please, please be kind to me!
> 
> \- Boki 🌸

**December 2017**

Bill doesn’t dream.

Well, actually he doesn’t sleep. Not in the way that humans or other mortal creatures do. So he doesn’t dream like they do, either. Ergo, Bill does not dream.

He does zone out, though. For somewhat long periods of time if left unbothered. But usually he only gets a few hours. He doesn’t do it as often, either. With no magic restrictions or a human body, he can go months and even years without his kind’s version of sleep. However, with the barriers that Dipper placed on him through the bond, he can only manage a month of no rest at the most. Human bodies are disgustingly dependent - and his body isn’t even that human.

No, Bill does not sleep like humans do. He doesn’t dream like they do. It would be more appropriate to say that he daydreams. He receives a series of pleasant or sometimes nonsensical thoughts fluttering about his subconscious as an unconscious distraction from the bleak nothingness of the initial zone-out and lure him into the trance for as long as possible. But a large enough trigger can still jolt him out of his demonic slumber if needed.

Sometimes when he sleeps, he finds himself wandering around in his own dreamscape. It’s a very surreal time for him - and that’s saying something because his whole gimmick, his _thing_ if you will, is defined by being as morbidly surreal as possible. But there he’ll be, wandering in some colorless variation of the cosmos, passing by endless white ripples within the backdrop of stars and distant galaxies that would carry him to some long forgotten memory across time and space - literally - because he’s been to a lot of places within the multiverse in the trillion years he’s been around.

And again - because he doesn’t actually dream - he can easily take over his wandering dream-self, like a daydream (see daydream is _definitely_ the more appropriate term), he isn’t bound to the predestination of his subconscious about which route to take in his brief trances. So, sometimes, he’ll take control, and poke his head every now and then into the ripples, trying to see which memories he’s stumbled onto.

Bill doesn’t do it often, because he has many, _many_ memories. Lots of faces and lots of places. Faces of demons and humans and countless other creatures. Faces of those he can’t see anymore. Therefore, the majority of the memories are unpleasant even by his own standard; things he’d rather not remember, things he wished never happened, things he wished had ended differently. 

Shooting Star once told him that wishes were what dreams were made of. Maybe for mortals. Not for him.

He only has ugly memories.

So, when he zones out one particular evening while Pinetree’s at some young fleshsack “frat party” to celebrate the end of “midterms” or whatever it was that the kid had been so stressed over, he likes to think that he has every right to be completely and wholeheartedly surprised when a particular series of events unfolds in front of his dream-self.

It’s very dark around him, and his surroundings feel fuzzy, like everything is teetering between being there and not.

And quiet, it’s so quiet.

Except that it really isn’t.

Because there’s a faint buzzing around him, like static, but softer. And then he realizes that the noise is coming from himself. He’s panting. Like he’s out of breath.

Why would he be out of breath? 

It isn’t like he _needs_ to breathe. Maybe his humanoid body does, but not his dream-self.

And then he glances over and he sees that bronze ochre of his humanoid body’s skin from the corner of his eye, reaching over deep into the fuzzy void, searching for something.

His hand feels like it’s wrapped around something. His arm jerks back.

A splash of cream then floods his vision before moving out in his periphery. He feels a faint scratch of softness - _hair_ \- dance along the side of his face, his humanoid face.

He’s never had his dream-self take his humanoid form. It was always his triangle - the reflection of his simple demonic soul. The revelation that he was having a trance with a different form should have been enough for him to jolt awake.

Yet, he feels that his conscious thought in being pushed back. Like he’s watching one of those shows on television and he can’t find the stupid remote, but he’s somehow unable to move away from what he’s watching - _experiencing_. Hyper-focused to the point that he knows he can’t be distracted.

Because, _back to the hair that is fluttering along his neck_ , the hair isn’t his own. He can feel it, it’s so much softer, and he can faintly see it’s color is a far cry from his own black-and-yellow, and he can _smell it_ , that musky, sweet bark and worn leather scent that has been engraved into his senses for the past seven years since he met that bold little --

And then he notices the heat in his gut, _does he have a gut (?),_ that bottomless void within the idea of his spirit that gets fueled by desire. It’s a strong heat, warm and heady, that curls and licks at his insides and seems to strike out the farthest to his lowest center part.

And, distantly - because he can’t seem to wake up from the shock even if he wanted to - he’s horrified (?) to recognize what part that is.

This isn’t a memory.

He turns his nose to follow that scent of sweet bark and leather, only to meet his hand, finding it claws deep into the cream column that it had pulled back earlier, blood prickling underneath, trickling slowly down that cream - what a fucking sight.

He can’t help but lick at it, tongue flicking out to lap at the tiny rivulets. He feels his hand grip tighter around that soft cream because _damn_ , when had blood ever tasted so sweet? He lapped again, searching desperately for another taste of it.

His attention was snatched when he felt a weak grip around his thighs.

So he feels himself glance down, ripping his head away from that delicate, sweet liquor, and is mesmerized by the tantalizing amount of cream that floods his vision.

And he realizes with clarity that what his claws had gripped into was a neck, and that he now had pressed up against a porcelain doll of a human body. Cream skin. Sweet-blood filled cream skin everywhere against him. A wild contrast against the glowing bronze of his own skin.

It’s small, cream hands that are clutching at him, arms pulled back, taut as the reach behind to desperately grip at the muscle of his thighs, thin fingers bowed firmly - he can see a faint pink pool at the tips from the blood rushing through.

Glancing back, he sees the creamy expanse of the body’s chest pressed against his own, heaving deeply, chest rising and falling with that illusion of sensuality. And he’s captivated by the tormenting cleanliness of the unmarred skin, teased by those soft pink pearls of nipples, hardened from some sort of imaginary chill. 

Lower down, he sees the flushed pink head of a hardened cock, rigid as it rests just against the almost non-existent happy trail that sprouted underneath the navel. It twitches every other moment or so, clear white precum rising from the tip, like a teasing wink, before it overflows and slowly drips down the underside, past the tight balls to the juncture of those thighs. And those _creamy, porcelain_ thighs, that were straddled over one of his own, quiver just so, jolting from some sort of touch that causes the rest of the body to follow suit - chest jerking up, and those thin fingers digging into the meat of his thighs.

And then that gut-clenching heat laces through him again when he sees his lowest center part, that damned tendril peek out from between those creamy thighs pressed against his own. Its inky mass, with its translucent golden precum pooling at its tip, curling this way and that between those soft limbs, rubbing along the juncture of them, smearing pale gold in its wake. Against him, those thighs quaver against his own, and he hears a faint sharp breath that is wholly _not his own_ breath against his ear.

That voice fucking called to him.

He feels his head whip back up and around, shoving his nose into the dark, thick mass of hair curling around the back of that beautiful neck. A deep inhale that moves his whole body wracks through him, his tongue flicking out again, curling against the tiny pinpricks of blood that had risen from the soft skin.

The hand that had clutched so fiercely on that neck shot down, cupping around the soft body’s rib cage, claws teasing against one of those pretty nipples. The body against him jerked, and he heard another ragged gasp breathe out near his ear.

He feels himself bring another hand around, pressing against the white chest, slowly sliding down. His claws pressed just so against the soft belly, faint pink lines left behind as his hand crept lower and lower.

It teases the head of that pink cock, cupping over it, letting the precum smear against the back of his hand - ignoring as the body jerked against him, ignoring as those delicate fingers trailed up his own sides, gripping where they could. His own hand continued down, swiping the golden stains of his own precum from those pale thighs before curling back down, passing over the balls and pressing against the taint and letting a wicked grin curl from his lips when the body stiffens against him once more.

And then things pick up speed, surprising him once again about how far this new dream would go.

He feels his prick, wriggling devil that it is, brush against the back of his hand before retreating back between him and the soft body against him. And - because he is now fully aware of the sweet, tantalizing voice breathing out with his own - he feels himself tensing with every soft moan and sigh that breathes out beside him, because that voice sounding _that_ sweet, _that_ soft, _that_ aroused has no business reaching his ears.

The hand teasing those hardened nipples trails down to the juncture between those soft thighs, claws faintly grazing the skin, leaving teasing marks against the flushed and sensitive skin.

One of those delicate hands that clutched at his sides shot up then, burying their thin fingers into his loose hair - _it was loose the entire time_ \- and pulling, not demanding, but just desperately trying to hang on. The heat spiked inside him again.

In the corner of his eye, he can see his prick curl down again, rubbing against that soft, creamy rear - leaving golden precum behind - before trailing down lower, and he does his best not to shudder as he hears that sweet voice whimper against him.

And then a new heat envelops him, hot and tight and slick against his prick, and his jaw falls slack from the sensation. Whatever heat inside him that spiked out felt like it was being spiked right back in, compressing and balling into a firm, hot pressure in his gut.

A sharp, sweet cry rings in his ears, and he feels the fingers in his hair clench harder and that soft, small body stiffen against him, and he can’t help the growl that rips through his bared teeth.

He presses himself as far flush against that unmarred rear as he can, feeling himself reach deep inside, enveloped by that foreign heat all the way down to the rigid base of his prick. One of his hands still grips within the juncture of those hot thighs while the other maps its way back up that porcelain-smooth chest, claws scraping up, leaving stark red marks behind, before they settle on that delicate collarbone.

And then he’s pressing all his weight down onto that small body, and it gives under him like it’s nothing - and considering that Bill can make himself the densest thing in the universe if he wanted, it wasn’t surprising - and so then they’re both falling down and on their fronts.

Until he rolls them over, sitting up because he’s chasing that sensation on his prick and he needs to _move_ \- dammit, he has to move because his shaft wriggling around inside that heat is nowhere _near enough_.

So he’s sitting up, arms pinning the other to the ground, growling as he rocks into that beautiful, pliant body beneath him - marked up by his claws, letting out the sweetest cries that only seem to make the heat in his gut lace out deeper in his veins.

And then he snarls, because there aren’t nearly enough marks along that skin. So white and clean, pink plenty, but barely any red - not enough. Only claws. No teeth.

So he snaps his body back down, curling over that soft body beneath him, teeth nipping - _wrong, biting_ \- into that succulent, soft creamy flesh under him, that sweet blood flooding into his mouth with every break of skin. Every snap of his hips is another moment his fangs dig into the enticing, white flesh of neck and back and shoulders --

And it’s still not enough, so he twists the body around - shuddering when he hears deep grunt beneath him because it’s laced with that sweet tenor still and it keeps his own ichor running south. 

So he ducks his head, wrapping his lips around the soft column of that delicate neck, sucking and nipping at the flesh, teasing it red and waiting until the scent of that sweet blood is just under his nose before he bears down, fangs piercing that soft flesh, moaning something savage as he laps the blood into his mouth, rutting harder into the shaking body underneath him.

He bits harder when he feels those thin fingers run harshly down his back, digging in those blunt and useless nails as hard as they could go and pulling down, down, _down_.

And then he’s using his hands to help maneuver the body under him, because it’s wriggling and squirming and a part of him wonders why it would bother to struggling against him _now_ before he groans from that hot feeling that punches him once those creamy thighs squeeze tight on his sides as the legs wrap into a vice around his hips, pulling him flush against that porcelain expanse of heated sin.

He doesn’t think like this. He doesn’t think things are hot or sinful or delicious, not in this way. He never felt this kind of pleasure before - he just _didn’t_. Never saw a need for it, never understood what the big deal of it was. 

But now he thinks he gets it as he rocks against the body under him, claws digging into every ounce of ivory skin he could get, teeth forever locked into that beautiful and delicious column of flesh and blood, groaning with every gasp and sigh and cry that reached his ears.

This was different from the kind of pleasure he was used to, but he thinks he likes it.

No, he loves it.

And then the body stiffens under him, gripping onto him tighter than before, as a long moan rips from its throat, and Bill faintly feels a wetness spill against his stomach. Just as quickly as it happened, the body goes slack under him.

The moment had distracted him, and while he feels his prick writhe desperately inside, trying to chase that peeking pleasure again before it falls to far down, he can’t help but pull back, wanting to catch a glimpse of that worn and used body under him, completely spent before he had even come close to finishing.

He groans at the sight, lips drawn back in a hopeless grimace because it’s too much - it’s _too much_.

Splayed out under him, that pretty body laid out, chest completely flushed pink, red scratches and teeth marks everywhere as it slowly rises up and down, nipples rosy, neck nothing but littered with blemishes, bruises and bite marks completely taken over.

He looks down at himself, letting out a heavy sigh as his prick twitches from inside, because the cum from his pretty lay was dripping down his stomach and pooling around where his prick meet with the body’s rim, slick with his own golden precum, sticking thinly to the juncture of those pale thighs.

He finally sees the spent cock, completely limp and only hanging near its body’s navel because the way they were positioned, Bill had that prone body nearly bent, hips pressed up against his own as its thighs loosely spread out under him, no longer clinging to his waist.

A tangent thought bubbles through as he glances down at those thighs, barely marked up at all. 

He wants to change that so bad. 

He wonders if that sweet pine blood will taste better from those thighs than that pretty neck.

A ghost touch of fingers reaches below his navel, as if their sizes were so drastic that the fingers simply could not reach.

He glances up towards the body’s face, because after all he’d done to it, he just realized that he never saw its face. How rude.

“ _Bill_ …”

Somehow hearing that voice call his name like that felt way too familiar. Maybe not in the way it was said but just the name itself.

That voice has said his name before.

 _Sweet pine blood_.

Like sap.

_Sweet bark and worn leather._

Pine trees and those old books that he was always carrying.

 _Dark, thick hair. Creamy white skin_.

A pretty contrast he’s seen everyday for over six years.

And then he’s looking into those bright hazel eyes, that unearthly mix of amber and peridot.

Pinetree has no right looking at him with those pretty eyes, lidded and sultry, reaching out for him like everything that just happened was normal.

Everything that just happened --

 _Wait_ \--

And then he wakes up.

Bill sits up fast, eyes adjusting to darkness instantaneously. He feels hot, hot everywhere, it’s not fair.

 _That’s not fair_.

As he breathes in and out, he notices that he’s still in Pinetree’s apartment, still on the couch he’d zoned-out on, still in his way-too complex humanoid form, and that one clock on the wall says that it’s fuck-o’clock in the morning, darkness still washed over from the outside. Pinetree’s still at that stupid party, but the bond feels quiet, so he knows that at least he’s not been getting into too much trouble.

And then he thinks back to the bond. It does some weird shit when when he or Pinetree have a wacky experience. Maybe he had gotten into some risque stuff at the party earlier and _that_ was why Bill had such a weird dream?

Or maybe not, because he didn’t have any kind of dreams like this when the kid went and discovered his own primitive fleshsack horniness all those years ago.

Or maybe it was because he’d love to blame this shit on the bond and not himself. If it was himself, he wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of it.

_Wishes are what dreams are made of._

Not now, Star!

Why would he ever wish to have a dream like that? It doesn’t make any sense to him.

Not at all.

He sighs against the couch and winces when he still feels hot, and feels a tightness in his pants. Looking down, he can see the movement happening underneath, groaning in agitation at his prick’s primitive whims.

So he gets up and stalks to the bathroom, because he knows that’s where Pinetree goes to deal with it on those occasional mornings, one question screaming through his head with every step that he takes.

_Why would I dream about Pinetree like that?_

**Author's Note:**

> [1/20/2021 EDIT]  
> I would appreciate y'all's comments! :>
> 
> WIPdates on my profile!
> 
> \- Boki 🌸


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